


feel special

by glukupikron



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26807605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glukupikron/pseuds/glukupikron
Summary: And, well, Charles could tell him that there’s always the rest of the band, or he could rouse Twinkletits for an emergency therapy session, or there are always, always groupies available, and then he could drag himself into his bed and sleep, but if he’s being honest, there’s nothing going on tomorrow that he can’t delegate to someone else or reschedule for a later date. For ten million dollars and Pickles' pride, he can have a late night.---For Kloktober Day 2: OTP or Favorite Character. [Why not my OTP which also happens to involve my favorite characters…?] and also, tangentially, Kloktober Day 3:OceanorOuter Space
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	feel special

**Author's Note:**

> charles/pickles is my otp from the beginning of time but i haven't written them in something like five years...terribly neglectful. inspired partly by those unused rehabklok mafia-lookin extras that went up on ebay a while back (i'm still curious what the original plotline for that episode was). this fic then veered off into something else entirely, in both tone and plot, and what i thought was going to be like 1k words tops ended up being...however many this is. this is also why it's a day late and two prompts mashed together.
> 
>  **content warnings:** emetophobia, alcohol, seth being seth
> 
> takes place in the nebulous time between the s3 finale and s4.

“Toki, like, carried his dad up a mountain. If it was me, wit’ my dad? I woulda thrown him down it.”

“Well, I mean, he very much did end up sending his father down that mountain…not intentionally, but it happened.”

“Yeah, well...I wouldn’ta wasted the time carrying him up there first.”

“Would he, ah, already be up there? And then you’d just...throw him down?”

“Yeah, sure. I dunno. You’re the-- the logistics guy, Charles.”

“Uh-huh.”

“ _Any_ ways, the point I’m tryin’ to make is thet…no one needs a dad. Lookit Skwisgaar. He didn’t have a dad, and he’s the best guitarist in the _world_. So if ya put a hit - _hic_ \- out on Seth? What harm’s that really gonna do the kid? Maybe it’ll make the kid a better person.”

“Well. I’m not sure that’s one of those things you can really plan for. I suppose it would partly depend on what, ah, Amber wanted--if she’d want to run Dethklok Australia--she’s quite a competent social media presence--or head back to Tomahawk, for example.”

“I’unno. ‘s not the kid’s fault his dad’s a piece of shit. Maybe we could set up a college fund fer the li’l guy?”

“I could arrange that.”

“Okay. Okay, good. Do it. Kablamo. Or somethin’.”

Charles lifts his phone.

“Wait, no. Don’t do it.” Pickles takes another pull from his beer. “Actually. Do it. Fuckin’... sicka his shit. Ten million dahllars. Thet’s _my_ money. Do it.”

Charles lifts the phone again.

“Wait. No. Don’t do it. I guess...I feel sahrry for the guy. But. No, do it. No. Hold ahn. I’ll flip a coin. Heads, ya do it. Tails, I drink more beer.”

“I’m not sure those are, ah, equivalent options. I haven’t got all day, unfortunately, Pickles.”

“Ain’t got all day for _me_?” Pickles’ brow furrows.

“I mean I don’t have all day to spend on ordering your brother’s...untimely end. I have plenty of time for you, Pickles. It’s my job.”

Pickles isn’t done trying to sort out his conflicted feelings about his brother, and now he’s reaching over the desk to pour himself some of Charles’ good bourbon. He doesn’t stop when the decanter glugs out its first measured pour, just tilts it a few more times until the glass is nearly half full, which is when Charles places a steady hand over Pickles’ own.

“Not all at once,” Charles says. “Pace yourself.”

“I can hold my booze,” Pickles protests, but he doesn’t move his hand away. He’s looking at Charles with something like defiance, but underneath that is a vulnerability that Charles knows better than to ignore.

“I’m…aware. But there’s less risk if you take it slowly. And you’re already intoxicated.”

“Right, all about optimi- optismis - opti- thet thing you do where all the shit goes perfect.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily call ‘preventing you from giving yourself alcohol poisoning’ a matter of optimization, Pickles.” Charles carefully removes his hand from Pickles’, who obliges him by settling the decanter back on the desk.

Charles’ dethphone buzzes next to the decanter.

“Y’gonna get that?” Pickles takes a gulp of bourbon.

Charles considers his options. He could take the call, but it’s only going to be bad news: he can see “Crystal Mountain Records” on the caller ID, and he suspects it’s Roy again, about to ask them if Dethklok’s made any progress on their album. The answer to that, as it has been for several weeks now, is “no.”

It’s not going to be a fun call. But he should probably take it.

“Just...just a moment, please, Pickles.”

When he finally gets off the call (and it had been about as excruciating as he’d anticipated), Pickles is standing by the sofa, working on his first beer of the six, brought in on a gilded tray by a klokateer who’d glanced nervously at Charles, knowing the protocol was that he wasn’t to be interrupted on a call. But the other protocol is that, barring any orders from Charles, the band comes first. Pickles has already finished approximately two and a half servings of bourbon. It’s been twenty-two minutes.

“I’m sorry, Pickles. Unavoidable, unfortunately. Roy Cornickelson. He, ah, wanted to know if you boys have made any progress on the record.”

Pickles is gripping the beer hard enough that Charles can see the tension in his knuckles. Charles watches him reach out, catlike, and smack a small Ikea lamp off a side table. It smashes on the floor and Charles hears a shard of glass ping off the side of his desk.

“Do it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fuckin’...get ‘im.”

So Pickles has changed his mind again. Probably seething quietly about Charles ignoring him on the call and then refocusing all that anger on Seth again. Charles can’t say he isn’t grateful that Pickles’ frustration isn’t directed towards him.

“By ‘him’ I assume you’re referring to Seth?”

“Yeah.” Pickles slaps another lamp off the table.

“You’re sure this time?”

“What, you don’t fuckin’ believe me?”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “Well, you’ve changed your mind about fifteen times now, so I would like to err on the side of caution. I’d be perfectly happy to do it, relieved, even, because then we could install someone new as the head. Someone more, ah, capable. Maybe someone with a little more…business acumen.”

He’s not going to argue with Pickles about this, never mind the fact that he’s had this conversation multiple times, and it nearly always ends with Pickles inebriated to the point of incoherence, mumbling something about how _sorry_ he feels for Seth. Charles finds the pity unwarranted, but as someone with no siblings himself, he supposes he may lack the appropriate life experience to fully empathize with Pickles’ situation.

“I just fuckin’ _hate_ him,” Pickles grits out finally, and smacks another lamp off the table. “And he’s always askin’ me for money. Always! He’s already got all the Australian money he could possibly _want_! What else could he even _need_?” Pickles’ voice pitches up into something approximating a keen.

“You don’t _have_ to give him anything, Pickles. What did he tell you this was for?”

“He said he owed some guys some money.”

Charles purses his lips. God only knows what Seth’s gotten mixed up in this time. It really would be easier to kill him at this point, Charles thinks.

“I’ll handle it,” he says instead, in an attempt to soothe Pickles’ distress. “Tell him all requests for money have to be approved by me. Tell him you’re on…I don’t know, financial probation or something.”

“He’ll _knoooow_ I’m lyin’ to him. He always does. And then he says shit like”--Pickles pauses to chug the rest of the beer-- “like, ‘I know yew better than ya know yerself’ and it’s ‘cause he’s an ex-con an’ a scammer an’ a fuckin’ _asshole_.”

“Like I said, Pickles. If he calls again, direct him to me, and then block his number.”

Pickles opens his mouth to protest and Charles sighs.

“Temporarily, if you’d prefer.”

“I’m gonna-- I’m gonna give him…he’s gonna get ten _million_.” Pickles’ voice has hit that frantic cadence and pitch that means he’s about two minutes from flinging himself at the nearest door or window in an attempt to escape the pressure of dealing with his brother, and Charles knows if he lets Pickles leave now, he’ll check their accounts the next morning and find that ten million gone, transferred to some Swiss bank account that he has no means of tracking.

Best to keep Pickles calm and contained until his panic passes. But Charles can also see the restlessness working its way through Pickles, starting with the bouncing knee and working its way up through his legs, the spasmodic flexing of his fingers and the flustered picking of some ingrown hair he’s found on his arm, all the way up to his eyes, which twitch and dart like a prey animal scanning the horizon.

“Why don’t we go for a drive? Might help for you to...clear your head. Fresh air. Change of scenery. And it’ll give the klokateers a chance to, ah, clean up. Maybe get a few more lamps in here in case you’re not feeling a hundred percent when we get back.”

Pickles glowers at Charles. “Don’t wanna deal with any Klokateers right now,” he says, and swats another lamp off the table in defiance.

“Just you and me, then. Like old times,” Charles offers. Pickles softens, slightly, at this.

“You should prahbably drive,” he says, and then grabs another beer from the tray and chugs it down.

“Of course.” Charles has seen how many drinks Pickles has put away, and he wouldn’t let Pickles drive even if he’d insisted on it.

They ride the elevator down to the garage, Pickles swaying slightly and mumbling something that Charles can’t quite hear. He doesn’t seem to expect a response, though, so Charles lets him be. The Klokateer operating the elevator sees them off with a “good evening, my lords,” and Pickles staggers past him without any acknowledgement.

“Send a crew to my office please. Clean up any broken glass, and replenish the Ikea lamps,” Charles says, and the Klokateer gives him an affirmative as the elevator doors close.

“Which car would you like us to take?” Charles says to Pickles, who’s wandered into a corner to hack and gag like a cat preparing for a hairball. He turns away out of respect for what little dignity Pickles has while he pukes in the corner.

One of the Klokateers working on the cars makes eye contact with Charles, and he gives the mechanic a slight nod. A text box appears on his phone: “Your personal car, sire?”

“Please,” he types back, and less than two minutes later, his black Maybach (customized and fortified, of course, with all the requisite security features built into any Dethklok vehicle) is pulling up beside them.

Pickles wipes his mouth on the handkerchief Charles offers him, and then shuffles towards the car, where a Klokateer is holding the door for him.

As he gets in, he yanks the door out of the Klokateer’s hands and slams it shut. “I _said_ I don’t wanna deal with anyone,” he says, and Charles sighs. It’s morphed into one of _those_ moods.

“The staff _do_ make things easier, Pickles. They’re here to help you. And there are strict non-disclosure policies in place. Anything you say or do is entirely confidential.” He knows Pickles can still be wary, in fits and starts, after his Snakes ‘n’ Barrels days: there had been the tabloids who’d had a field day running miserable stories about his band’s dissolution, his descent into heroin addiction, and then the revelation that it had been his manager’s assistant who’d been the “anonymous source” for a lot of their garbage.

But Charles’ job is to protect the band from things like this, to prepare for every possible occurrence and safeguard against any legal loopholes and as many unforeseen circumstances as possible. If that had been his assistant, he thinks he probably would have had them…dealt with.

They drive for what feels like a considerable amount of time, the only sound the occasional clicking of a turn signal and the jingle of the keys in the ignition, but when Charles looks at the clock, he finds it’s only been forty-five minutes. He’s charted a careful course around the perimeter of Mordhaus, close enough to return home if an emergency arises, but far enough away that Pickles won’t complain about being able to see the klokateer patrol cars scouring the property for threats.

Pickles is looking dolefully out the window at the trees and various Mordhaus outbuildings as they pass by. Forty-five minutes is a good amount of time for Pickles to have hopefully calmed down at least a little bit.

“How are you feeling, Pickles?”

“...shitty,” comes the feeble reply after a moment.

“Ah. I’m sorry to hear that. If you’re still upset about the”--Charles decides against mentioning Seth specifically-- “the situation--.”

“No, like, I gotta puke and you should prahbably pull--” Pickles is interrupted by a gurgling burp.

Charles heeds Pickles’ advice. The gravel crunches under the tires as he moves onto the shoulder, and before he can even put the car in Park, Pickles has already opened the door and is vomiting noisily into the dirt.

“Sahrry,” Pickles says when he pulls himself back into the seat.

“No, I, ah, appreciated the warning. Are you feeling better now?”

Pickles smacks his lips and makes a face. “Tastes bad.”

He twists towards the center console and, for a brief, horrifying second, Charles thinks Pickles is going to try, drunkenly, to kiss him. It isn’t the first time, and Charles knows it won’t be the last, but Pickles bypasses him entirely to lift the cover to the refrigerated compartment in the backseat.

“I know you got champagne in here. You had it last time we took yer car.”

“That was leftover from, ah, a business meeting. Which was being chauffeured. And that was quite a while ago, Pickles. I don’t regularly keep champagne in my car for casual consumption.”

“So you don’t got any booze here?”

“Unfortunately, no. There should be some bottled water there, though, if you’d like to rinse your mouth.”

“Then I wanna go to the liquor store,” Pickles says, and twists the top off one of the water bottles. He swishes and spits a few times into the dirt, and then slams the door shut and waves his hand at Charles to let him know he’s ready. Charles pulls back onto the road, trying not to think about the gritty vomit he’s driving his new tires over.

*****

The liquor store turns out to be closed, on account of it being nearly one in the morning, but Charles pulls into a gas station so Pickles can get some breath mints, and Charles thinks he really should know better by now than to let Pickles loose when he’s in one of these moods, because when Pickles comes back, he’s got a pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade tucked under his arm and container of breath mints wedged between the bottles.

“Let’s go,” he says, and Charles obliges.

Pickles twists the top off the first Mike’s and chugs it. Charles has decided it’s probably safe to head back to Mordhaus, and he really would like to sleep, because he’s going to be up first thing at six, and it’s not that he can’t function on limited sleep, but he really would prefer not to. The first of the “No Trespassing” signs appears and when Pickles sees it, he lets out a squawk of complaint.

“I don’t wanna go back yet,” he says. “Turn around.”

“It really is quite late, Pickles. And, ah, there’s alcohol at home. Something better than what you’re drinking now.”

“Turn around.” It’s a bratty tone in Pickles’ voice, and Charles has to resist the urge to snap at him. Pickles must sense this, twitchy as he is about disapproval and rejection, because he tempers his next words with a soft, pitiable note.

“I don’t wanna be alone.”

And, well, Charles could tell him that there’s always the rest of the band, or he could rouse Twinkletits for an emergency therapy session, or there are always, always groupies available, and then he could drag himself into his bed and sleep, but if he’s being honest, there’s nothing going on tomorrow that he can’t delegate to someone else or reschedule for a later date. For ten million dollars and Pickles' pride, he can have a late night.

“Where would you like to go, then?”

“I dunno. You pick.”

*****

Charles knows the ocean calls to Nathan, and he’s felt it tugging quietly at him, too, ever since Jomfru’s analysis of Dethwater and the subsonic whale calls contained within, ever since Ishinifus had revealed the prophecy to him, ever since he’d died and come back and cemented his place in the puzzle that is the Church of the Black Klok and its central Prophecy.

Ishnifus counsels him sometimes in the depths of the Church (which itself resides thousands of feet below sea level) and he appreciates Charles’ anxieties, but never shares with him more than he thinks Charles is ready for. And it’s the not knowing that makes Charles the most frustrated: his inability to plan for contingencies, to protect the band and their business, to prepare them for what’s to come.

Ishnifus says eventually Nathan will learn to see the water as a comfort, a helper instead of an antagonist, that he will come to understand its meaning. And Charles will, too.

But Ishnifus also says, “Not yet,” and the dreams Charles has about coral reefs and sunken ships and hydrothermal vents are uneasy enigmas to him. But he has patience, and he has faith, because those are the two things he’s always had for Dethklok.

So he waits, for answers and for understanding.

And tonight, the water twines its fingers around something in his chest--he would hesitate to call it his soul, but it’s some core part of his being, at least--and it tugs, and he steers the Maybach towards the beach.

The tide is high, water lapping heavy against the sand. In the dark, illuminated by only the Maybach’s headlights, the ocean looks haunted, full of the unexplainable and unknowable, the white crests of the waves reflect the light even as the darkness of its depths swallow it up.

Pickles is chewing on a mint and peeling the label off one of the Mike’s bottles, flinging sticky bits off his fingers and all over the upholstery. Charles notes there are two bottles left in the six pack, and one of the empty ones isn’t quite empty enough and drips pale yellow onto the floormats.

Charles pushes his glasses up onto his forehead and rubs at his eyes, trying to will away the heaviness that comes with the exhaustion after a long day’s work.

“How are we feeling, Pickles?”

“We?” Pickles says, and stops picking at the bottle. His eyes have that sunken, damp look that means he's battling either stress, exhaustion, or both.

“You. How are _you_ feeling, Pickles?”

“Been a while since we did this,” Pickles says instead, evasive, and drops the bottle into the footwell. It clangs against the other empty ones. He fumbles with the seat controls and starts to lean the chair back, propping his feet on the dash in a feint of nonchalance, and Charles makes a mental note to ask the crew to deep clean the car before he has to take it out on that meeting with the two accountants from Crystal Mountain. He can see a dried crust of vomit on the sole and side of one of Pickles’ shoes.

“It has,” he says, and Pickles sets his arm on the center console.

“Like, a year, at least.”

“I’ve been very busy.”

“Y’always have that excuse.”

“Is it an excuse if it’s true?”

“Well, yeah. It’s still an excuse. Ever since you came back…” Pickles lets his hand flop so it rests palm-up on the leather surface. He wiggles his fingers, but Charles won’t allow himself to take the bait.

“A lot has happened. And after that... I couldn’t let it happen again.”

“You fuckin’... _died_ ,” Pickles says sharply. “I saw them light your fuckin’ corpse on fire. Nate’n was gonna write a song about it but we voted him down ‘cause Toki looked like he was about to cry when he suggested it.” Pickles’ laugh sounds forced, and his eyes are shiny in the dim light.

“Would you feel better if I told you that was a very convincing facsimile? They can do amazing things with some pork, gelatin, and a special effects team.”

“Thought it was kinda fucked up when yer pyre smelled like bacon. Made me hungry. ...we made the klokateers get us Dimmu Burger after.” Pickles hiccups wetly, but at least he’s smiling now. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and Charles watches a small wet circle form on the edge of each wristband.

“Whoo.” Pickles exhales. “Okay. Better now. So yer spendin’ all yer time, what, protecting us?”

“Something like that.”

“And ya didn’t think any of us would… feel weird about you comin’ back, and not sayin’ anything, and just acting like nothing happened?”

“I know my absence put a lot of pressure on you boys. I’m sorry I couldn’t come back sooner.”

“Hold my hand, you jerk,” Pickles says.

Pickles’ palm is chilly from the cold bottles, and sticky with spilled liquor and old sweat. The damp, coarse fabric of his wristband makes Charles’ arm itch, but when he shifts to move away from it, Pickles grips his hand a little tighter.

“Remember when we’d do this, like, all the time? Back when Dethklok was just starting out.”

“I remember.”

“Yer car wasn’t this nice though. Those springs in the backseat always made my shoulders hurt.”

“We didn’t have that Crystal Mountain contract yet.”

“Been that long, huh?”

“It has. And a lot has happened between then and now.”

“Yeah,” Pickles says.

“I, ah, hope that in that time, I’ve been able to…to be beneficial to...to help you become successful...” The words are backed up in his throat. He isn’t used to vulnerability.

Pickles squeezes his hand softly.

“You’re doin’ good, Charlie,” he says.

Pickles leans towards Charles, and now Charles is pretty sure he’s going to try and kiss him. Charles thinks he might let him. For old times’ sake, he tells himself.

And then Pickles _is_ kissing him, resting his weight on the console between them. The sticky wintergreen of the mint is the first thing Charles tastes, and then the sour-sweet punch of the hard lemonade.

He lets Pickles kiss him, counting to thirty in his head, and then he pulls back, slow enough to seem reluctant and to keep Pickles from lurching, hungrily, all the way across the seats and halfway into Charles’ lap. They’re not supposed to do this, and he’s explained as much to Pickles at least a dozen times, but his explanations don’t really convince Pickles, and, if Charles is being honest with himself, they don’t do much to convince him, either. They never have.

Pickles grins at him, color high on his cheeks, and it’s hard for Charles to reconcile this knowledge of prophecy with the man he’s known for more than twenty years.

There are a thousand and one things Charles wants to tell him, about living and dying and a priest in scarlet robes and a Church hundreds of feet underground that’s built its world around him and Dethklok, and for the first time in these dozen or so brief, needy interludes that he’s had with Pickles, Charles realizes he’s kissing… maybe not a god, but something beyond him, beyond humanity, beyond anyone’s understanding.

“I like these li’l drives we do,” Pickles says, blissfully unaware of everything to come, everything that he’s destined to be, and he settles back into his own seat. He’s still gripping Charles’ hand. “Makes me feel special.”


End file.
